Copp In The Dark, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) (3 page)

CHAPTER
FOUR

At first glance he appeared to be a man in his sixties with white hair and goatee, comically dressed in knickers and knee-socks, floppy vest and rumpled shirt, but of course he was costumed as Don Quixote, the improbable knight with the impossible dream, and that first glance was very deceiving. Behind the grease paint and false whispers stood an imposing figure of handsome virility no more than twenty-five years of age with sparkling eyes and genial disposition.

The players were getting ready for their matinee performance, chattering and clowning around with each other as they applied make-up and warmed up their voices. Very young, all of them. A couple looked like high school kids but I knew better. This was professional theater, don't misunderstand, primarily distinguished from Broadway by the amount of money invested in the productions and the lack of big-name talent, not the lack of talent itself.

The star and I shook hands in self-introduction and moved to a quiet corner of the busy dressing room, which was shared by all the male members of the cast, as I asked him, "Does my name mean anything to you?"

      
The voice was warm and his manner entirely open as he replied, "I'm sorry, no, I'm afraid it doesn't. Should it?"

      
I handed him one of my legitimate business cards and said, "Maybe not, but I've been hired to save your life."

      
The eyes narrowed just a bit at that and stayed that way as they examined my card but otherwise his manner remained the same. "Thanks, no offense intended, but my life is going pretty well right now."

      
"You know nothing about threats or attempts to kill you?"

      
The man of La
Mancha
chuckled and said, "Someone has played a practical joke on you."

      
"It cost them a thousand bucks," I told him soberly and produced the envelope with the money. "I came to return this. Who do I give it to?"

      
It was hard to ruffle this guy. He just grinned and said, "You can give it to me if you'd like but I don't know anything about it."

      
"Maybe someone else in the cast," I suggested.

      
He turned to regard the confusion of the dressing room, then looked at me with a sort of pitying grin. "There's not a thousand dollars between them," he said. "We work for carfare, not limousines."

      
I said, "Maybe it's a confusion of identities. Are you from Minnesota?"

      
The eyes gave a telltale little twitch. "No. I'm from Wisconsin."

      
"Close enough," I said. "Were you at the University of Chicago until a few months ago?"

      
Another twitch. "I studied in New York. You have the wrong man."

      
I returned the money to my coat pocket. "Guess you're

right. Sorry to bother you. Uh ... but why don't you call home, Al. All is forgiven and they worry about you."

No more twitches. He just stared at me in silence. I nodded my head in farewell and went out.

The man from La
Mancha
was Alfred Johansen, no doubt about it. He was on the bill for La
Mancha
as Craig
Maan
.

And his twitches knew more than his mouth did.

I swiped a cast photo from the lobby and took it away with me, went straight to the post office and express mailed it to Minnesota, then went downtown to the FBI building for a talk with an old pal who shall remain nameless here. We'd worked together on a kidnap case in San Francisco years back, became friends despite the natural hostility between our respective agencies, and had kept in touch over the years. Due to a physical disability, he'd been confined to a desk in Los Angeles for several years working liaison with the local police departments in the area. We got together occasionally for a beer and Monday Night Football but that had been the extent of it and actually I hadn't seen him for about a year.

I asked him, "How's the ticker?" and he replied with a grin, "Not quite strong enough yet for the Rams versus the Forty-
Niners
."

We repaired to the agents' lounge and got some coffee, sat down across a small table and brought each other up to date on our personal doings, then I asked him, "What do federal marshals do these days?"

      
He smiled and replied, "Anybody they can. Why? You thinking of applying?"

      
I said, "Hell no. But there are a couple I'd like some words with.
Bobsey
twins, look alike, dress alike. One might be named Larry."

      
He sniffed and said, "Sounds like Dobbs and Harney. Don't mess with those guys, Joe."

      
"No?"

      
"Uh huh."

      
"That bad, eh?"

      
"Pure poison. Stay out of their way."

      
"Can't. Couple of nights ago they snatched a woman off her front porch, chloroformed her, stripped her, and left her manacled hand to foot in my bed. I happened to be in it too, unconscious from a blow to the head, when the sheriffs busted in. Now I'm up for kidnap and attempted rape."

      
My FBI pal carefully set his coffee down and quietly
 
said with no surprise whatever in the voice, "Yeah, that's heavy. They could do something like that, sure. Point is, why would they?"

      
"That is exactly what I am trying to find out, pal."

      
He said, "Sit tight," and went out.

      
He was gone about ten minutes.

      
When he returned he poured fresh coffee for both of us, sat down heavily, told me, "Don't push it, Joe."

      
"I have to push it."

      
"No you don't. Case will never get to court. Your victim will recant as soon as the other issues are resolved and all charges will be dropped."

      
"What other issues?"

      
"Can't talk about that, Joe."

      
"But the charges will be dropped."

      
“
Yeh
."

      
"Does the victim know that?"

      
"Sure. She cooperated."

      
"You're saying there is no victim."

      
"That's right."

      
"Dobbs and Harney, eh?"

      
"I shouldn't have given you that. I'm asking you to drop it."

      
I said, "Okay, it's dropped. But make me feel better, huh."

      
He stared at me through a long silence then muttered, "It's a hot case. Politically sensitive. Feel better?"

      
"Not much better. Hit me again."

      
My friend sighed, toyed with his coffee, finally hit me another tiny lick. "Federal Witness Protection Program."

      
I started breathing again long enough to say, "Oh shit."

      
"What?"

      
"Maybe I bulled my way into the china closet."

      
"Not yet," he assured me. "But you were getting close."

      
I said, "Yeah but I've been busy since then. Sent a package to Minnesota today by overnight mail. If their program has anything to do with Don Quixote, they'd better move their man fast."

      
"Don who?"

      
"Quixote, the man of La
Mancha
. It's a play at a dinner theater out my way."

      
"Oh that."

      
"That, yeah. Tell '
em
. HI be home in an hour. Tell '
em
to come see me. But this time they shouldn't bare their fangs, I might kick '
em
out."

      
I got up and walked out, left my man sitting there staring at his coffee with a "what did I do?" look on his worried

face.

By an act of congress, the federal government some years back began protecting prosecution witnesses who may be subject to retaliation by
bigtime
defendants. Sometimes that means secluding the witness in a safe house while the heat is on and until the testimony can be given. Sometimes it means later giving the witness a new name and a new life in a new place, a life on the lam under constant jeopardy, especially in organized crime cases.

My friendly informant at the FBI had used the words "hot case" and "politically sensitive." Yeah.

I was worried too.

CHAPTER
FIVE

They were already waiting for me when I got home. Not Dobbs and Harney but two FBI agents. I pulled around them and into the garage. They sat in their car until I got out of mine, then met me at the front door of the house. Even if I hadn't been expecting the call I would have known what these guys were.

      
"Mr.
Copp
?"

      
“That's right."

      
They introduced themselves and gave me plenty of time to examine the credentials, then asked if they could talk to me inside.

      
Very respectful, see, and by the book. I enjoyed the contrast and made a mental note to mend my own sometimes brusque ways in the future.

      
They were Special Agents David
Shenks
and Melvin
Osterman
, very sharp. I read them right away as easy and friendly, felt comfortable with them.

      
We went straight back to my office and I tried to make them feel as comfortable with me. They declined an offer of refreshments, wanted to get right down to business.

      
So did I.

      
Shenks
said, "We'd like you to understand right up front, Joe, that we are familiar with your excellent background in police work. We'd like this to be a friendly meeting between professionals."

      
I said, "Then let's call it that."

      
There followed a brief silence, then
Osterman
told me, "We've come to deliver a formal apology on behalf of the bureau. We simply do not work that way and we want you to understand that. The entire bureau is embarrassed over the matter."

      
I said, "I understand. So am I. But just so I'm clear on the matter we're discussing..."

      
"Your arrest on false charges,"
Shenks
explained in a flat voice.

      
I said, "Okay."

      
"The entire incident has been erased from the record,"
Osterman
said. "The Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department has been fully apprised of the unfortunate circumstances. They are cooperating. The incident did not occur."

      
"That's nice," I said.

      
Shenks
added, "You can bill the bureau for your time and inconvenience, any reasonable amount. Is that fair?"

      
I said, "Sounds fair, sure. How'd this happen so quick?"

      
The agents exchanged glances.
Osterman
took it. "Well, as soon as it was brought to our attention ..."

      
Shenks
: "Naturally the bureau moved quickly to correct the matter and set the record straight."

      
I said, "But I brought it to your attention less than an hour ago."

      
Shenks
: "The action was under review before that."

      
I wanted to get it straight. "Before I yelled."

      
"Right."

      
"And you guys beat me back here."

      
"Actually we were already on the way."

      
"So you do know about my visit downtown today."

      
They exchanged glances again.

      
"That's right," said
Osterman
.

      
"But you haven't asked about Minnesota."

      
Another conference of eyes only, then
Osterman
replied, "We were already here when we got the call from downtown, Joe."

      
"They didn't mention Minnesota."

      
"No. Is it important?"

      
I shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not." I took the Federal Express
airbill
off the envelope from Minnesota and handed it over. Those
airbills
show the name, address, and phone number of the sender. "I sent this guy a picture of the La
Mancha
cast."

      
Shenks
: "La
Mancha
?"

      
"The play."

      
"Oh. Right."

      
"You guys don't know anything about that, do you."

      
Osterman
explained: "It's a sensitive case, Joe. You know how that goes. Sometimes the left hand is not privileged to know what the right hand is doing."

      
"And you guys are on the left hand."

      
He smiled. "There are both left and right hand aspects of delicate cases like these. But we'll see that your information gets to the proper hand."

      
"That would be Dobbs and Harney?"

      
"We can't answer that,"
Shenks
put in quietly.

      
Osterman
quickly added, "But we do appreciate your cooperation, Joe. Are we all clear now?"

      
I said, "Let's make sure. What you came to tell me is that Dobbs and
Hamey
overreacted to my interest in the case and did something dumb which the bureau overrode when you got wind of it."

      
Another exchange of glances. "That's about it."

      
"So why didn't Dobbs and Harney themselves come to square it with me?"

      
Osterman
: "That seemed inappropriate."

      
Shenks
: "You might question their good faith."

      
I said, "Right, I might at that. I also might break their faces."

      
Nobody laughed.

      
I said, "But of course it's a politically sensitive case."

      
"Uh ... yes," said
Shenks
.

      
"You guys want me to just send a bill and forget it."

      
"The bureau hopes that you will."

      
"And butt out."

      
Osterman
showed a thin smile and replied, "As the responsibly professional thing to do, yes, that would be best for all concerned."

      
"Suppose I don't go along with that. I can still send my bill?"

      
Shenks
chuckled and said to
Osterman
, "I think he misunderstood the message."

      
Osterman
was not laughing. He looked at me soberly as he told me, "You have no choice in that, Joe. You will butt out."

      
"Or ... ?"

      
"Or you haven't seen the beginning of inconvenience," said
Osterman
.

      
"It's like that, eh?"

      
"I'm afraid so, if you insist on making it like that."

      
I was beginning to revise my reading of these guys.

      
Proper, sure, and by the book. But cold as ice beneath that easy surface. I said, "So you're not really apologizing for anything. You're just trying to give me a graceful exit. You couldn't make it stick anyway—and you never intended to, did you. Your cowboys paid a woman to help them stage that little scene in my bed rather than dirty their hands with an actual kidnap. Or maybe they used one of their own undercover people. Either way, you'd never want to take that act into a courtroom, would you."

Osterman
showed me a thin, cold smile. "What do you want, Joe?"

"Maybe I want a bouquet instead of a brickbat. And maybe also I just want to exercise my constitutional rights as a citizen and businessman."

The special agents looked at each other then stood up abruptly to leave. "It's all a matter of perception,"
Shenks
said. "You've been offered a bouquet whether you know it or not."

"I could sue you all, you know," I mildly reminded them as I followed them to the front door.

Osterman
looked back at me as he stepped outside. "Dead men don't sue, Joe," he said quietly.

I stood in the open doorway and watched them get into their car and drive away.

So I'd been warned.

Okay.

Respectful and by the book, I'd been warned. Somehow it was a lot more chilling that way.